


ANGOLA, INDIANA

by Wolfiekins



Series: DARK ROADS [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Male Slash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events with Meg and the Shadow Demons in Chicago convince Sam that it's finally time to have <i>that talk</i> with Dean.  Takes place directly following the season one episode, "Shadow."  </p><p>WARNINGS:  Explicit Language, UST, Angst</p>
            </blockquote>





	ANGOLA, INDIANA

**Author's Note:**

> _Sam and Dean maneuver a mine field of muddled emotions and murky expectations as they search for the Demon that killed their mother. Rambling, five-part series that begins near the end of Season One and explores how the brothers come to terms with their mutual attraction for one another:_
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> DISCLAIMER: All SUPERNATURAL characters and settings remain the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. & The CW. No offence intended nor monies made from this presentation. For entertainment purposes only.

**__**

 

 

 

"Dean."

He doesn't answer.

"Dean," I say, this time much louder. He responds by turning the radio up a notch, and "Ballroom Blitz" blares just a bit more loudly.

_The fucker._

He throws a glance in my direction before fixing his gaze back onto the deserted stretch of Indiana two-lane blacktop ahead of us. We've been driving for over three hours now, and I know the Impala's gotta be low on gas.

Most of the time I give up at this point. I let him have his little victories. But not this time. Too much shit's gone down tonight. Meg, the devas, Dad. And then everything Dean dumped on me in the hotel room. No, he isn't getting away with it this time.

I reach over and give the radio knob a savage twist. We're plunged into silence; well, not really, but honestly, neither of us even hear the Impala's throaty, rumbly growl anymore.

“What the fuck?” Dean snarls, his right hand reaching for the radio.

I grab his wrist and hold on to it.

“Let go, Sam.”

“Pull over at the next motel we come to.”

“Let the fuck go.”

I grip his wrist as hard as I can. “No.”

He turns to look at me and stares for what seems like forever. The lights from the dash cast an odd green glow on his face; he hasn’t even bothered to wipe off all of the blood. His mouth hardens into a thin line; I can tell he’s really pissed off.

He hates it when things don’t go his way.

Without a word, he tromps on the brake pedal.

Before I can brace myself, the dashboard’s connecting with my right shoulder, the tires are screaming against the pavement, and I crumple onto the floorboards, absently hoping that there wasn’t a big-ass semi right on our tail.

‘Cause it would’ve been rolling right through the backseat about now.

The Impala lurches to a halt. Dean slams the gearshift into park, and I heave myself back up into the front seat. Incredibly, I’m still holding on to Dean, and he wrenches his wrist from my grip, casually draping his arm across the seatback, looking really pleased with himself. He’s actually smirking a bit.

_The fucker._

“You fucker,” I say, rubbing my shoulder. I glance out the back window. Nothing. “Are you crazy? I just want to talk, Dean.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t.” He pauses a second before ramming the shifter down and stomping on the gas. He squeals the tires, and I feel the Impala’s rear end sway sideways. He keeps his foot down, and we’re back up to eighty-five in no time.

But he leaves the radio off, which I take as a good sign.

“Dean.”

“What?” he finally says.

“Stop at the next motel, okay? We need to get cleaned up, and we both could use a good night’s sleep about now. We‘re far enough away from Chicago.”

He doesn’t bother to look at me, but he nods slightly.

Another good sign.

**~~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~~**

There’s a reason we avoid the interstates. They’re boring, for one. And secondly, when you’re using fake credit cards, it’s a bit wiser to patronize places like the Ho-Hum Motor Court than Holiday Inn Express.

The Ho-Hum? What the hell were the owners thinking?

But really, that’s where we land, on US Route 20 just west of Angola, Indiana, barely twenty miles from the Ohio border. Can’t wait to see what the rooms look like.

I wake the desk clerk up; some punked out young kid with way too much eyeliner, a nose ring, and a ragged Green Day t-shirt. I sort of like the magenta hair. The kid has so much metal around his neck I wouldn’t have been surprised if every compass in a ten mile radius pointed directly at him.

I’d done the best I could to wipe most of the blood from the wounds on my cheek, but I knew I looked like hell anyway, despite pulling my hood up as far as I could.

I shouldn’t have worried; the kid probably wouldn’t have noticed if I’d been sporting twelve inch horns from either side of my forehead. He slides the room key across the worn turquoise Formica, mumbling something that sounds like “Thanks” before turning and flopping into his ratty armchair.

The room number?

Guess.

Thirteen.

If we’d had a dollar for every time we’d pulled that room number...well, we’d have quite a few dollars. The universe really has a perverse sense of humor.

I rap twice on the driver’s window of the car. Yanking open the rear door, I grab my duffle and laptop from the backseat, and slam it without a word. I head off across the puddle riddled parking lot, noting the still open convenience store just up the road.

I’m hoping a six-pack will do the trick.

The Ho-Hum is one of those one-story, u-shaped joints. I spot the orange door with the number thirteen on it, about dead center of the ’u’. I hear the Impala fire up, and a second later, she flies right by me, barely six inches from my left hip.

I swear under my breath as Dean parks her right in front of number thirteen.

_Fucker!_

How’d he know? Probably didn’t. Good guess, anyway.

Dean’s out of the car and waiting by the door, studying something off in the distance, ignoring me.

_No problem, bro. I can do that, too._

I walk up right next to him and just stand there. It’s an old game, and we both play it very, very well.

He tries to pretend that he’s not waiting for me to unlock the door.

I bide my time. I may not have much, but I’ve got more patience than he has. It’s less than a minute before he starts bobbing his head slightly, obviously listening to some classic rock tune in his head.

I stand there for a bit longer. Dean makes a good show of it, and I have to give him credit: He lasts about twice as long as I’d have thought. I really have to work to try not to smile too broadly when he whirls about.

“What’s your problem, Sam?” he blurts out. He takes a step toward me.

“That’s what I want to talk about,” I reply.

I can see the muscles of his jaws working as he thinks up a response.

“I told you,” he starts to say.

“Dean.” I take a big chance and clamp my hand to his left shoulder. I can feel him tense up immediately, and he draws in a deep breath, lowering his head and glaring at me menacingly.

“Let go,” he says in a low voice.

“We. Need. To. Talk.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I note that his grip on his duffle is so tight that his knuckles are white.

“Please, Dean.” I say. I squeeze his shoulder a bit, and decide to go for broke. “It’s about family, Dean. About us, okay?” Part of me hates that I had to throw that trump card. I mean, really, he’s my only brother. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Aside from dad, we’re all we have. He should understand. He should know how devoted to him I am. He should know...well, maybe he shouldn’t know that, after all.

Anyway, my ploy works, and he twists out from under my grip, holding out his hand while he faces the pock-marked orange door.

I drop the key into his palm, and he jams it into the lock, opening the door and shoving it open. He hits the light switch, dumps his duffle on the first bed, and stalks off to the bathroom.

I sit down next to his duffle as he slams the door.

I look around. The room decor isn’t too bad. On the Winchester scale, it rates about a seven. Blessedly white walls. Orange carpet. Heavy, dark, Spanishy type furniture. Bullfighting paintings all about. Orange, brown and tan curtains and bedspreads. All in all, a bit better than average, but slightly lacking in character.

I shrug out of my jacket and hoodie and peer at myself in the mirror over the dresser. The wounds left by the shadow spirits are deep, but sharp, not jagged. A kingsfoil poultice should heal things up pretty nicely. One good thing about spirits and demons: the wounds are easy to heal, as long as you know how.

I root about in my duffel, assembling the necessary ingredients. The ancient television is one of the models with a radio built in. I flick it on, twiddling the FM dial until I find the ever-present classic rock station. Pink Floyd‘s “Comfortably Numb.” Good joke.

I’d give anything for some cool indie rock about now.

I hear the shower come on, and decide it’s time for a beer run.

**~~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~~**

The room’s still empty when I get back, the bathroom door still closed, the radio playing softly to itself. I unload the twelve pack of Bud Light into the tiny fridge, cracking open a can just as Dean steps out of the bathroom.

He’s a bit startled that I’m still standing there instead of asleep, let alone with a beer in my hand. He pulls his towel a bit tighter about his waist, and I can’t help but notice that he’s still bleeding a bit from the gashes on his forehead. That’s not all I notice, and I silently curse myself for allowing my mind to wander.

“You’re bleeding,” I say profoundly.

He touches his fingers to his brow, frowning as he notes the blood on them. “Damn.”

I set my beer down and shrug out of my jacket. “Come here. Let me take care of those cuts.” I gesture for him to come over to the bed, and he does, hesitantly, as if I’m going to bite or something.

Dean sits down on the corner of the bed, and I wince at the new constellation of bruises blossoming across his upper back and shoulders.

“Here, drink this,” I say, grabbing my beer and handing it to him.

He pulls heavily on the Bud as I lean over him, cleaning his wounds with a solution of nightshade and goldenrod. He closes his eyes as I work, one of my hands cradling the back of his head while I dab the gouges with the soaked gauze.

“Shit,” he hisses.

“Sorry,” I reply, keeping at it while he drains the beer. I can hear the cleansing solution sizzling softly as it does its thing, counteracting the Shadow Demon's foul residue.

Dean jumps up suddenly, nearly losing his towel as he paces toward the refrigerator.

“A bit more and you’ll be done,” I say.

He takes a huge swallow of beer. “I _am_ done, Sammy.” He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and looks at me closely. “My turn. Sit your ass down and let me take care of you.”

I don’t protest. Frankly, I’m too tired. I plop down obediently on the bed, and he’s working on me in a second, tilting my head to the side and gently but firmly cleaning out the deep scratches on my left cheek.

“You’re a mess,” he says.

I gasp slightly and he instantly freezes.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Stings a bit.”

“Supposed to.”

He keeps at it, and I will myself to relax. It never ceases to amaze me how gentle he is at times like this. Even when he’s sewing me up on the side of the road somewhere, he’s careful, cautious, so damn concerned about not hurting me it’s almost funny. But that’s Dean.

“Take off your shirt,” he says.

I pause a moment and he rolls his eyes.

“I want to check you for smaller cuts or bruises. C’mon, okay?”

He’s right, of course. It’s the same routine we always follow after we’ve been in a fight. But somehow, something’s different this time. I finish my Bud and pull my shirt over my head.

Dean hands me another beer as he opens one more of his own. He gestures at my chest with the beer can. “Couple of scratches there.” He kneels down and sets to work, carefully dabbing away at my chest. He’s very close, and I can smell his wet hair clearly. Clean, fresh, mostly of whatever cheap shampoo we’ve happened to pick up, but under all of it, the scent that’s undeniably Dean.

I shift a bit closer to the edge of the bed and close my eyes.

I didn’t lie to Dean in that hotel room back in Chicago. When I told him that once we’d killed the Demon, I wanted to go back to school. Get a job. Have a normal life.

I do.

But what I didn’t say was that even though that’s what I want, more than anything, I really don’t think it’ll ever happen. How could it? After all the things I’ve seen? With all that I know? After what happened to Jess?

Now that I’m aware of all the dark, awful things out there, how could I ever go back to a so-called normal life? It’d be impossible to worry over house payments and promotions and case files when I knew that demons and spirits and wraiths and devas were still out there, killing people.

I understand a lot more than I did when I left Stanford. I understand my father a bit more, and Dean, too. And if I feel this way after only a year of hunting, I can’t imagine how Dean feels, after doing this for most of his life. And he needs me. He’d be totally, completely alone if I left him. Lost. How could I do that to him? Again?

“Ow!”

“Calm down, Scully,” Dean says, and for the first time in hours, I can sense a hint of humor in his voice.

“Fucking prick Mulder,” I shoot back, and Dean actually smiles crookedly. I see a crack in his armor and I eagerly take advantage of it. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

Dean clears his throat and pulls away. Fast.

“Forget it,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Let’s get some sleep.”

“Not until I’ve had my say,” I persist.

“Aww, man, not more of that touchy-feely crap!”

“You were right about Dad.”

He snorts and then takes a swallow of Bud. “Really.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “You were right. Dad was in danger as long as we stuck together. Deep down, I knew that, but we’d just found him, and I couldn’t accept that he had to leave and we might not ever see him again.” He narrows his gaze, studying me. "I was pissed off couldn't see straight. But you were right."

He just stares at me, his pale green eyes boring right through me.

“So, I just wanted to let you know that.”

“Thanks,” he says, finishing his beer and opening the fridge for another one. “You?” he asks, and I nod, deftly catching the fresh Bud he then hefts my way.

I pop it open, taking a deep drink and plowing forward. Might as well get it all out.

“And about our talk in the hotel room, before we went after Meg...”

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Don’t bother, Sam,” he spits out. “You made it perfectly clear that you’re outta here once we kill the Demon. I heard you, okay?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t say everything, Dean. Not by a long shot.” I scoot over and pat the mattress next to me. “Please.” That’s the second time I’ve used that word in an hour.

Dean pauses, glancing about the shabby little room as if there were answers printed on the walls. “I’m wearing a towel,” is all he manages to say.

“Just sit your ass down, okay?”

He chugs his Budweiser and stands there, staring at the dingy orange carpet for a few moments. He looks at me and smiles weakly, fussing with his towel and finally walking over and sitting down on the bed. He rests his elbows on his knees, looking straight ahead. “Get on with it, pre-law.”

I take a deep breath, unsure if I’m actually ready to say what needs to be said. I’m not exactly sure of my own feelings at this point, but I’ve got to try. Well maybe I am sure, and that’s what scares me. And I’ve dug this great, deep hole within myself and stuffed everything down there, burying my true feelings and pretending that they’re gone.

But they’re not. They’re still there.

And I’ve got to... _we’ve_ got to deal with them. We can’t be at odds like this any more.

One or both of us could get killed.

 _Shit._ This isn’t going to be easy.

“When I said that I wanted a normal life, that was the truth,” I finally manage to say.

Dean snorts, nodding his head. “Yeah, yeah, you made that clear, really. That once the Demon‘s dead, I've got to let you go.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. I think I was trying to convince myself more than anything else. But that _is_ what I want, Dean, for _both_ of us. To have some kind of life where...where we’re both not living out of the trunk of a car, financing everything with fake credit cards and dodging the law at every fucking turn. But what I didn’t say was that I don’t believe that’ll ever happen.” I take a long drink of beer and Dean does the same. He still hasn’t looked at me. “But there's more to it than that. Stuff I should have said, but didn't."

He studies the carpet again, his head nodding slightly. "C'mon, man," he says, so softly that I can barely hear him.

What I didn’t say..." I take a deep breath. "I should have told you that whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere you’re not.”

I swallow hard, hoping against hope that he’ll believe me, and sure enough, he finally turns to look at me, his eyes so damn full of emotion that it nearly rips my heart out.

“Don’t fuck with me, Sammy,” he rasps, his voice rough, raw. “Don’t.”

I shake my head, laying a hand on his shoulder and squeezing hard. “I’m not, Dean. It’s taken me a long time to figure it out, to accept it, but I have. I’m with you. Wherever the road leads, whatever happens, I’m there.”

He takes a deep breath, downing some more Bud. He stares straight ahead, his eyes glistening, his breathing suddenly uneven, heavy.

“God damn it, don’t do this to me, okay?” he says. “You don’t have a fucking clue...”

“Yeah, I do,” I interrupt. “Dad, us, we’re a unit, but you’re my family, Dean. You’ve taken care of me from the very start, watched over me, saved my life more times than I can count...”

“Sam...”

Dean’s voice is strained, he’s close to losing it, but I keep pressing forward. I hate to, but he’s got to understand that things have changed, that I’ve changed, and that there’s one thing he doesn’t need to worry about any more.

“I’m not leaving you, Dean. Even after we kill the Demon. There‘s no way I could lead a normal life now, even if I wanted to.” I pull myself closer to him, and he tenses up again, holding his breath. “I’m staying with you, okay?” I lean in closer, barely touching my head to his. “Because that’s what I want. I want us to be a family again. I want to be with you.”

I feel his breath hitch in his chest, and I press against him, really feeling the need to be as close as possible. I feel Dean relax, and he actually leans into me a little, and we just sit there, an old R.E.M. song playing away on the scratchy radio: “The One I Love.”

A long time passes and he doesn't pull away. I can't remember Dean ever letting anyone hold him this long

“Cool tune,” Dean finally says, “for an artsy band.”

“Yeah,” I reply, feeling the slightest bit buzzy from all the beer. I smile and nuzzle at his ear. He tries to pull away but I hold him close. I know I’m really pushing it, but there may never be another moment like this. I can‘t believe I‘m about to say it, but what the hell.

“Love you, man,” I whisper softly.

 _Fuck._ I’m a total, complete asshole.

Dean snorts and sits up, draining his beer. He pauses for a long time, and my gut feels like it’s tying itself into knots. I screwed it up, I went too far, like always.

Dean sniffles and nods, throwing me that half-lidded, _I-got-your-number_ stare of his. “Fuckin’ emo college punk,” he mutters. “Let’s get some sleep.” He stands up and smiles, a real, honest-to-goodness Dean smile.

I can barely believe it, and about all I can do is respond with one of my own.

He wipes at his eyes and then digs around in his duffle for a fresh pair of boxers.

I finish my beer, tossing the empty can at the tiny wastebasket by the desk, missing by a mile.

“Loser,” Dean comments as he drops his towel and pulls on his boxers.

I stare, and for once, don’t feel guilty about it.

He’s my brother. He’s Dean.

Nothing’s really changed, on the surface, but deep down, I know we’ve taken a giant step. Without saying it, we’ve both agreed to let the other in. Sure, that’s a big deal for me; it’s not an easy thing for anyone, no matter what they say.

But for Dean?

For him to let me say those words, and then smile about it?

It’s fucking _huge_.

I’m smiling like an idiot as I kick off my shoes and shove down my jeans, flopping on the bed to pull them the rest of the way off.

Dean yanks back the ugly bedspread and slides beneath the sheets.

I stand up and walk over to the light switch by the door, flicking it off. Shadows engulf the room, save for a bright sliver of light streaming through the break in the curtains. It washes across the far bed, and I can just see Dean sitting there, staring back at me.

I bypass the bed nearest the door and pull back the other side of the bedspread, climbing in next to Dean. We sit there, looking at each other for a long moment before he finally hunkers down and closes his eyes.

I watch him for a while longer before I scoot under the covers. I lay still for a long time, oddly terrified to move a muscle.

Dean shifts an few inches closer to me, the fingers of his right hand barely grazing those of my left. He doesn’t move away.

I slide my hand under his, and before I know it, sleep takes me and I’m gone...

 

**_~~~ fin ~~~_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

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End file.
